Chapter 1 #2
She is my healer, then. I realize now how barbaric I must look.
It’s also then that I notice how everyone here is dressed.
Silks, beading, ribbons, corsets. The money it would take to commission a gown even close to that would be the difference between comfort and starvation for a family in my village.
“What would you like us to call you?” the woman asks, unknowing of my previous interaction with the man. She brings my attention back to the situation. That is exactly what this is. A godsdamn situation.
She smiles softly and takes a seat on the edge of the bed opposite to me, hands folded in her lap.
“Liv,” I say, eyes darting between the two. I refuse to let this man out of my sight. “My name is Liv. Not Elivienne or whatever he –” I gesture to him with my free hand – “called me.”
“Cedric,” he corrects.
“Liv,” I correct back. He chuckles slowly and I deepen my scowl at him.
Swine.
“Liv, my name is Avonde,” she cuts in. “You are in Lux. This –” she nods her head in Cedric’s direction – “is Cedric. Do you know of anything that has happened to you?”
Ahvon-day.
“Is this Rolan’s doing?” Cedric questions in rage. The healer doesn’t respond. “I was just inside her mind an hour ago, Avonde. I thought— she seemed fine.”
My confusion builds into anger as thoughts begin to escape me. There was the village. I remember the house with Ma inside it. She must be losing her mind, frantically searching for me. Oh Gods, what has happened?
I also remember the work. So much work, exhausting work, that we put into the fields. There was Hal and Sawyer every day…
Sawyer. I remember Sawyer. He must be here. Has to be here.
“Where is Sawyer?” I demand again, looking to Avonde now, shears lowered.
My arm, head, neck, throat, my whole body burns with more pain every second I remain on the floor.
Avonde looks right to Cedric whose intense stare has not left my face.
I avoid his gaze. The crowd in the hall seems to have doubled now, whispers growing amongst them.
“Sawyer? Surely you would rather Cedric right now?” Avonde questions, a puzzled look on her face.
“Why would I? I don’t know this man,” I plead, tears beginning to form and make their way down my cheeks.
I try to hold them back. “And as my healer, you should really know what my name is and who I am,” I add.
“I feel better. Please, I believe I came here with a man, Sawyer. He…” I lose track of my thoughts as I realize it then.
“He looks like him.” I point and Cedric’s jaw tics. “But with lighter hair and blue eyes.” My words soften at the end, because it hits me that I have seen this man, Cedric, somewhere. Perhaps in proximity to Sawyer, but my mind again conjures nothing.
Cedric, having become aware of our audience, looks over his shoulder to the group in the hall and stands up. Without even turning to them, he commands the room. The whispering stops.
“Some privacy please. Or make yourselves useful and see to it that the prince is sent for.” He turns and looks me up and down, a face of sorrow. “Immediately.”
I reach for the thin blanket on the bed. I’ve begun to shake terribly from exerting myself during the whole getting-off-the-bed action. Adrenaline, no doubt.
A hand brushes my leg during the slight turn to grab the blanket.
Without thought, I swing out at it with the shears, colliding with the flesh in front of me.
Cedric curses and grabs my hand, meeting my eyes as he lifts his other hand to wipe the blood trickling across his brow. I cut him right below his hairline.
Cedric squeezes my wrist. “Drop it.”
I gulp, tightening my grip on the weapon. “Unlikely,” I say back. He works his jaw and squeezes my wrist some more, causing as much pain as I can handle. I relent and let go of the shears. My eyes catch on the blood splattered on the floor.
I just assaulted someone.
My eyes dart back to his wound. Only, there is no evidence of a deep cut like the one I just made. His skin is as flawless as before.
“What the—”
Someone clears their throat, bringing my head up faster than my body likes. I immediately have to fight against the dizziness plaguing my mind, but all of my focus is on the man in front of me.
“Sawyer,” I croak, jumping up to reach for him, my knees buckling like a newborn calf on the way over.
I practically fall into his arms but immediately savor the familiarity of his body.
After all, we have spent hours together becoming familiar with much more than the way our arms feel around one another.
Memories flood and surface, bobbing like driftwood as my emotions claim more of my mental state.
I remember his hold on the platform, in the grove, in the village. It was firm, protective, and warm.
Except he isn’t…
He isn’t warm. My breathing stops at just how cold and stiff he is. His grip on me is awkward, unfamiliar. Is he taller? My knees find themselves, feet grounding as I work on stabilizing myself. My gaze leaves the floor as I look up to him, unsure of what to expect.
Sawyer’s face is the same, but paler. The sun that had kissed his skin from years in the fields has abandoned him.
Those eyes are the same shade of blue, like when sunlight hits shallow water, but a darkness hangs behind them now.
He seems taller and firmer compared to the soft muscles I cherished just a few hours ago. Or however long it was.
And his outfit. The distressed cotton shirt and pants he wore in the grove has been replaced with a pitch-black shirt, the neckline cutting a V low onto his chest, with leather ties lacing the space.
His pants are tight, like fine leather. His canvas shoes, one size too small, are replaced with tall riding boots, shining with a fresh polish.
You would think he had never known a day of labor by looking at him.